


A Study In Insults

by Moonbeam (luvsbitca)



Series: Forgiveness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Catharsis, Insults, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsbitca/pseuds/Moonbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sees Sherlock after three years. Things do not go as Sherlock planned, John is angry. Sherlock and John fight about how bad of a decision Sherlock made, John insults him – a lot! John does not forgive Sherlock in this fic.</p><p>SPOILERS FOR THE REICHENBACH FALL</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Insults

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished The Reichenbach Fall, cried at the start, cried at the end. Wanted to kneecap Sherlock for breaking John. And this happened. Smutty, kinda not as smutty as I might normally do but I did enjoy all the insults.  
> Anyone else, praying that they would have to snog as they were doing their running away from the cops while handcuffs so they could hide from someone. I know complete cliché but didn’t a little part of you REALLY want to see it?  
> I love Martin Freeman, in a really pathetic way!

**A Study In Insults**

by Moonbeam

 

“You stupid prat!” John yelled as he slid into Sherlock.

 

“Idiotic.” One deep rolling thrust.

 

“Inconsiderate!” A hard thrust jutting into his prostate making Sherlock moan out his name.

 

“Three.” Sliding out slowly. “Fucking.” Rolling in deep. “Years!” Rutting up against the nerves inside of him making him gasp into the bed post in front of him.

 

“Selfish.” John reached around and gave Sherlock’s cock a firm twist causing the world’s only consulting detective to thrust back and impale his own body on John’s cock.

 

“Egotistical.” John reached down and cupped Sherlock’s balls.

 

“Megalomaniac.” John said with one final trust up into Sherlock’s prostate as his fingers found his perineum and pressed down firmly. Sherlock came apart in front of him, panting out his name like a prayer.

 

John wasn’t done yet. He had a whole slew of names for Sherlock but it had been three years since he had been buried inside Sherlock, three years with nothing but his hand and resurrection fantasies and he came apart without meaning to; his come filling Sherlock as his head dropped down into the hollow between his shoulder blades.

 

“John?” Sherlock said after a moment. “Are you crying?”

 

“I could kill you for doing this to me you fucking bastard.” John said pulling from Sherlock’s body and stomping over to the bathroom slamming the door behind him.

 

John looked at himself in the mirror, tears running down his cheeks as he stared at himself. He washed up quickly, brushing the wetness from under his eyes and throwing the door open to find Sherlock standing; filling the space in the doorway.

 

“Conceited egomaniacal dickhead.” John said pulling his clothes on. “I am leaving in case you missed it you arse. Don’t follow me and do not under any circumstances appear at my flat.”

 

John pulled his jumper over his head and opened the door, the woman on the other side gasped at the sight of Sherlock naked standing behind John. He slammed the door behind him and stalked down the hallway.

 

He made it outside and into the taxi before he realised his hands were shaking.  

 

When he was in his flat, little and cold, nothing like home, nothing like Baker Street, he pulled out his phone and sent a message. ‘You superfluous, lying, overlord of a git. You knew all this fucking time and you didn’t think I could keep the fucking secret? YOU should have known better you wanker. John Fucking Watson in case you didn’t know you vainglorious, self-concerned, pompous prat!’ It was really hard to get a really good insult going if you had to abbreviate, he ended up sending two texts.

 

He went and crawled into his bed and threw the covers over his head waiting.

 

Twenty minutes later his front door opened, then his bedroom door, if he pulled back the covers he would see his praying mantis mimicking arse of an ex-roommate.

 

“I told you not to come here.” John said loudly.

 

“But you wanted me to.”

 

John threw off the covers, his breath caught involuntarily at the sight of Sherlock in front of him after all this time. But their shag from earlier had taken the edge off the burning desire to burrow into Sherlock’s chest and make sure he didn’t leave again.

 

“You made me watch you jump off a building, you had a cyclist hit me so I wouldn’t get there straight away, you had someone fake your initial exam – probably Molly, and then you had Mycroft take care of everything else.”

 

“Well done John.” Sherlock beamed.

 

John reached next to him and threw the book he grabbed at Sherlock’s head, he moved out of the way.

 

“Mrs Hudson. Greg Lestrade, and me. Angelo, Mrs Kim-”

 

“What?”

 

“The people who mourned your death. And a number of other people who you helped who knew you weren’t a fraud because you could not have set them up. Just like I knew you didn’t set everything up you wanker.”

 

“John, how long are you going to call me names?”

 

“Until I run out, maybe after that. You had no right to make me think I watched you die.”

 

“I had to do it.”

 

“Of course you had to do it, you had to beat Moriarty because it’s all about Moriarty. You had to win that fucking game, that horrid, evil little game that was so much more important than anything else. We could have helped you!” John stood and jabbed Sherlock in the chest, hopefully bruising the painfully alabaster skin of his chest.

 

“No one could help me.”

 

“Except Mycroft? Because Mycroft is smart too, he’s smart like you are.”

 

“Mycroft has his uses.”

 

“So did I, but you didn’t take me with you.” John’s voice cracked at the end.

 

“I was keeping you safe.”

 

“I didn’t feel safe. I felt like someone had reached into my chest and pulled my insides out leaving a great gaping hole where you used to be. I was numb and alone before you came into my life you self-indulgent, stuck-up, egocentric twat! How dare you leave me worse than I was before you came along?”

 

“John.” Sherlock reached out a hand and John glared at him, Sherlock pulled it back.

 

“I would have helped.”

 

“You would have died.” Sherlock said.

 

John pulled his fist back and punched Sherlock who didn’t seem to see it coming as it connected with the sickening crunch of his nose and he looked pleasantly surprised afterwards.

 

“Feel better?” Sherlock asked.

 

“No, I might do it again in a minute. See if it makes me feel better. Go and sit down in the other room. I’ll put it back in place.”

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was softer.

 

“Do not assume I have forgiven you. Just because I forgave you after every other dickish thing you did to me does not mean I am going to forgive you dying for three years you conceited, vainglorious, pompous sociopath.”

 

“You told me I wasn’t a sociopath, repeatedly.”

 

“I might have changed my mind.” John disappeared into his tiny bathroom and got his first aid kit.

 

“No you haven’t. you still love me. You will forgive me…eventually.”

 

“What the hell makes you so sure you narcissistic lying monkey’s butt.”

 

Sherlock grinned quickly before John’s eyes flicked back up to his face. “Because, he had a sniper trained on you, he had an assassin in Mrs Hudson’s entryway and he had a dirty cop in Lestrade’s office. All of them were told to kill each of you if I didn’t jump.”

 

“And it never occurred to you to use that oversized brain of yours to stop them instead of organising a rubbish track to jump into and a group of people to crowd around you – homeless network I assume.”

 

“You are doing so well John.”

 

“Yes, well I had three bloody years to think about it fucking stupid consulting detectives who don’t see what is right in fucking front of them.” John fixed Sherlock’s nose keeping himself from being as gentle as he would be with someone else.

 

“I love you John.”

 

John punched him again, split lip to go with his broken nose. Then he grabbed his elbow and dragged him to the door, pushing him out closing and locking the door behind him shoving a chair under the door handle. “If you loved me,” he yelled through the door. “You would not have killed yourself, or me for three years.

 

John double checked everything was locked, found his earphones and turned on something depressing. Tucked himself back into his bed after pulling the chest of drawers in front of his bedroom door, and closed his eyes.

 

He knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

 

 **The End**


End file.
